Purgatory's Key

by Dayton Ward

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I was . . . overcome by the most peculiar sensation.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Sarek paused a moment, as though considering his response. “I am at a loss to explain the experience, except to say that it felt very much like the bond I share with my wife.”

  From her studies of their culture, Joanna knew that Vulcans were telepathically joined to their mates and, depending on individual proficiency, could sense or even communicate if they were in proximity to each other. There were numerous stories about just how great a distance could be bridged in this manner, but Joanna herself had never put much stock into such things. Further, she doubted that the ambassador’s wife possessed the telepathic talents to achieve such a feat. She decided that he must have been meditating and he had spoken aloud when his thoughts turned to her. Given their present circumstances, she felt Sarek could be forgiven for what some Vulcans might view as a lapse in discipline. Besides, if it helped him to stay focused as they made their way toward their destination, then she certainly was not going to take issue with it. After all, they still had a long way to go before they reached—

  “Wow.”

  Sarek asked, “What is it?” Instead of replying, she looked first to him and then to the distant mountain range.

  The mountains were closer. Much closer. Their foothills appeared to be shrouded by trees, which doubtless would provide shelter.

  “How the hell did that happen?”

  “We seem to have made much better progress than would seem reasonable given our foot speed,” said the ambassador.

  Joanna nodded. “No kidding. How long have we been walking?”

  “I am uncertain.” After a moment, Sarek added, “I find myself unable to calculate elapsed time in this place, nor even to estimate it.”

  “That’s unusual for you, isn’t it?”

  Sarek replied, “It is. Most interesting.”

  Ahead, the mountains and the welcoming forest at their base waited. Joanna wondered what they might find.

  What the hell kind of place is this?

  Six

  B’tinzal hated this cursed planet, along with everything and everyone associated with it. Well, almost everything.

  Thinking about it, she supposed she should have welcomed the thick, unremitting rainforest and the oppressive heat accompanying it. After all, it reminded her of the jungles of the Kintak region on Qo’noS, in which she had spent many seasons hunting as a child. Those were pleasant memories, made all the more so by the fact that her father and grandfather had flouted the conventions of her village by taking a female offspring to hunt, rather than leaving her to tend to the home and livestock. With no son to which such traditions could be passed, her father had seen to it that she was as prepared for adulthood as any male child.

  Despite what preliminary sensor readings had conveyed regarding this planet’s indigenous wildlife, B’tinzal so far had seen nothing on par with the wild targs, krencha, and other big game animals she had pursued on those hunts so long ago. She was tempted to set off into the wilderness, armed with nothing but her trusty blade, and see for herself what challenges this world had to offer.

  Perhaps another time, she reminded herself. For now, this planet offered only one thing of interest: the alien construct.

  B’tinzal stood on the terrace overlooking the compound that had become the center of operations for the Klingon contingent on the world known as Usilde. The first rays of morning sunlight were filtering through the trees, illuminating the large section of forest that had been cleared away by construction equipment to form an open compound. Six buildings of varying size had been erected here in hasty fashion, using thermoconcrete and other semipermanent construction materials. The camp was encircled by an intrusion control barrier to defend against local predatory wildlife, which seemed to exist with abundance in the surrounding forest. All of the buildings arrayed around the makeshift courtyard were single level, with the exception of the one housing her quarters as well as the camp’s command center. This was her favorite time of day, before the buzz of activity seized the encampment. Other Klingons were already moving about, tending to their first tasks of the day, and in the distance B’tinzal could see soldiers moving to and from the guard tower standing at the compound’s far edge.

  Just visible through the trees north of the camp and rising from the center of the vast lake was the enormous dark metal hull of the bizarre fortress. Enclosed by a circular wall that extended sixty meters out of the water, the citadel was dominated by the towering central column that supported a collection of saucer-like modules, which grew ever smaller toward the top of the column and culminated in a large domed saucer. A cluster of sensor and communications antennae sat atop the uppermost saucer. It was striking, even beautiful in its own way, and had proven to be as infuriating as it was mesmerizing.

  “Good day, Professor.”

  Her reverie disrupted, B’tinzal turned from the terrace to see her assistant, Kvarel, standing in the doorway. The young Klingon wore a dark coverall garment of the sort favored by the rest of the science contingent.

  “Good day to you,” replied B’tinzal. “Am I to surmise that you bring a message at this early hour?”

  Kvarel nodded. “Yes, Professor. Captain J’Teglyr demands a new status update on our progress.”

  “You mean since the one I sent him before retiring last evening?” B’tinzal shook her head. “Why am I not surprised?” Though she led the survey team that had been dispatched here, overall responsibility for the mission still fell to Captain J’Teglyr, commander of the orbiting warship I.K.S. Vron’joQ. A traditional warrior, J’Teglyr had little use for anyone who did not wear a uniform and even less regard if that individual happened to be a female. Like many in his chosen profession, the captain failed to see the importance of anything that did not directly further the goals of conquest. To him, this assignment was a distraction at best and a punishment at worst, even though it held the potential to bring something of great value to the Empire.

  His expression hardening, Kvarel said, “He does seem to be making these requests with increasing frequency.”

  “I suspect he is receiving similar commands from his own superiors.” B’tinzal allowed herself a mischievous smile. “It is difficult to summon much in the way of pity for the captain. I did warn him that this likely would be a rather time-consuming endeavor.” She gestured over the terrace toward the compound. “He apparently feels the need to justify the time and resources devoted to establishing our little expedition.”

  What had begun as a simple scientific mission had been escalating toward what B’tinzal knew would be a full-scale occupation of the entire planet. In her view, such formal appointments as the military garrison and the command post were not needed, as she was the ranking member of the survey team, with only a small security contingent to provide protection for her and her colleagues. Even that was perhaps more than was necessary, given that the indigenous sentient species, the Usildar, posed no real threat.

  Nevertheless, Captain J’Teglyr, who followed his orders without question, had set into motion the take-over of the planet. Most of the local inhabitants of nearby settlements had already been gathered into camps and dispersed to carry out various tasks, such as clearing areas of the surrounding forest to make way for a larger, more permanent base. Plans were also in motion to subjugate the rest of the Usildar population, though that would require considerably more personnel to accomplish. B’tinzal could see the point to such effort, of course; the claiming of Usilde would provide yet another source of valuable mineral ores and other natural resources to be used by the Empire and in particular to feed the ever hungry Klingon military apparatus. Of equal or perhaps even greater value was denying this same opportunity to the Federation. The planet offered little else, though its strategic location would at least be helpful in disrupting the Federation’s c
easeless expansion efforts.

  Then there was the citadel.

  It taunted her, just as it had done every day since her arrival on this world. Its creators were not to be found, and those Usildar who had been here to witness its construction had been less than helpful when asked to describe its builders or purpose. Only in the vaguest terms had they been able to offer the knowledge that the citadel was a gateway for aliens from another universe, the Jatohr, who planned to take Usilde as their new home and had begun terraforming the surrounding region to suit their needs, much to the chagrin of the Usildar.

  That scheme, however far along it had developed, had been disrupted by the actions of a Starfleet captain and his ship, some years ago. The result of that intervention was the apparent killing or removal of the Jatohr who had made the transit from their universe. B’tinzal suspected that the Earther captain and his crew had found a humane way of removing the Jatohr threat rather than killing them outright, but no Usildar had yet been able to corroborate her theory. As for the machine, it had been rendered largely inert, at least with respect to its supposed primary purpose. Whatever portal or doorway it was able to conjure had been closed, perhaps permanently, leaving only the device itself and whatever secrets it might contain.

  It was those secrets that so intrigued the Empire and had brought B’tinzal here. The mission she had been given was a simple one: study the citadel and determine to what use the Empire might put it. Surely, a device of such power had more than one purpose, or could at least be modified to serve other needs? If that was true, then the machine was proving to be most uncooperative in that regard.

  Sooner or later, B’tinzal thought as she gazed through the trees to the silent, defiant citadel, you will surrender.

  “I will respond to the captain’s request in due course,” she said, leaving the terrace. “Come. Let us proceed with the day’s work.” Despite the frustrations she had encountered with her attempts to study and understand the alien contraption, the challenge it presented could not be denied. Patience and perseverance would triumph; of this, B’tinzal was certain.

  It took only moments to walk across the compound and to the edge of the lake in which the alien fortress resided. B’tinzal used the opportunity as she did each day to admire the citadel’s marvelous construction. Getting into the fortress had proven to be a challenge in the beginning, with its primary point of access being several underwater entrances through which transport craft entered the bottom of the complex. Once B’tinzal and her team had arrived on station and the Klingons established a long-term presence here, steps had been taken to facilitate getting to and from the citadel. A deployable field transporter had been set up near the guard post at the lake’s edge and was controlled by one of the soldiers from the security garrison, and it was there that B’tinzal and anyone else with business inside the fortress was beamed into what had been identified as a courtyard of sorts within the alien complex’s towering fortifications. Only after the first reconnaissance teams had made a survey of the citadel’s interior had this area been found, which was otherwise inaccessible from outside the structure itself. Though the first group of Klingons to take charge of the complex had employed scattering fields to prevent unauthorized transport to and from the structure, B’tinzal had dispensed with that security measure, at least for the time being. The fields could be reactivated in the event a Starfleet ship or some other party was discovered to be attempting a covert infiltration, which Captain J’Teglyr and the Vron’joQ were supposed to prevent.

  We shall see if the good captain is up to that task.

  The transporter deposited B’tinzal and Kvarel inside the quad, and from there it was a short walk to the structure’s master control room. It was a multitiered chamber, with four distinct levels all connected by a network of ramps. At the room’s center was the tall, cylindrical shell housing this portion of the massive transfer-field generator that was the very reason for the existence of the entire complex. Consoles were arrayed in a circle around the shell’s base, positioned so that their operators could monitor activity on the display screens set into the curved bulkheads. Like so much else of the alien construct, the generator was inactive.

  This area had become an amalgam of Jatohr and ­Klingon technology, with members of her team working at tables littered with computer terminals, portable scanners, and other devices. The equipment had come from the Vron’joQ, and several of the display monitors and other components pulsed or hummed with life. In contrast, most of the consoles that were part of the room’s original setup were inert. Only a handful of indicators were active, and it had taken B’tinzal and her people several days to discern that these displays corresponded to different autonomous systems functioning deep within the citadel. The entire complex reverberated with a low yet distinct power, the purpose of which remained a mystery. Sensor scans had revealed that the citadel’s inner mechanisms were in a constant state of reconfiguration, all taking place without any apparent oversight or concern for the Klingons or anyone else in their midst. To B’tinzal, it was as though the fortress was the physical manifestation of a computer program, carrying out whatever instructions it contained until that process was completed or interrupted.

  It is as if the machine lives.

  Any chance that she might escape Captain J’Teglyr’s notice disappeared when B’tinzal felt her communicator buzz for attention. Stepping off the portable transporter pad, she removed the bothersome device from a pocket of her coveralls, allowing herself a sigh before activating it.

  “This is B’tinzal.”

  “Did your servant not inform you that I am waiting for a status report?” boomed J’Teglyr. B’tinzal thought the Klingon ship commander seemed even more irritable than normal.

  “Good day to you, Captain. Yes, I did indeed sleep well, as that is all that has transpired since my last report.”

  “The Klingon High Command grows weary of this lack of progress, and I grow weary of enduring their wrath.”

  Deciding that further antagonizing J’Teglyr would be amusing though unproductive, B’tinzal said, “I share their frustrations, Captain, and yours. The alien device has resisted our efforts to force its operation. As you know, at least one vital component is missing.” Without the Transfer Key, as it was called by its Jatohr creator, the transfer generator seemed incapable of functioning. Complicating matters was the knowledge that the Key was in the possession of James Kirk, an Earther known to many Klingons. Such reports were strengthened by the latest information from High Command, which reported that Kirk and his ship were now en route to the Libros system.

  Such guile. It is as though Klingon blood flows through his veins.

  Kirk would not easily surrender the Key, and at this point B’tinzal was uncertain just how far the High Command would push against Starfleet and the Federation to obtain it. Was this alien contraption worth inciting a war? Klingon warriors needed little reason to fight, but B’tinzal knew the political leaders who guided such decisions would not act without due consideration of all factors.

  “We must face the unpleasant possibility that without the missing piece,” she continued, “this is a puzzle that may remain forever unsolved.”

  “You sound like a Vulcan when you speak that way.” There was a sigh, as though J’Teglyr were composing himself before saying anything further. After a moment, he added, “Our orders are clear, Professor: find a way to activate the machine and determine if it can be of any use to the Empire, or destroy it to keep the Federation from using it against us. At this point, I am leaning toward the latter of those two options.”

  “With all due respect, Captain, that would be a rash decision.” B’tinzal began crossing to one of the room’s inert control consoles. “Though our efforts to activate it have so far been unsuccessful, we have still learned a great deal. The technology contained within the mechanism offers boundless opportunities for research. There is still much this device
can teach us.”

  There was another pause, and B’tinzal sensed that the captain was considering every word. Like many officers with lengthy careers, J’Teglyr had almost certainly given thought to how a situation might benefit him and his personal standing. Delivering a prize like the citadel to the High Command would be a noteworthy achievement for any Klingon, but even more so for an officer of J’Teglyr’s rank and seniority. This surely would serve to advance him within the military leadership hierarchy. However, B’tinzal also suspected that the captain might have other, more selfish designs for the alien artifact. It would not be the first time that a Klingon warrior had sullied his honor for personal gain.

  This idea seemed to be strengthened when he did something that was very much out of character. J’Teglyr said, “Very well, Professor. I will tangle with the High Command yet again on your behalf. What else can be done to assist you?”

  B’tinzal chose to field the question without dwelling on any ulterior motives. “We simply need the time to properly study this device, Captain. I cannot offer a timetable for that. After all, this is a totally new technology.”

  “I would suggest a redoubling of your efforts.” The discussion ended with an audible click, leaving B’tinzal to stare at her now dormant communicator.

  Kvarel offered, “He never fails to instill confidence and inspiration in those around him, does he?”

  The remark provoked a howl of laughter from B’tinzal as she returned the communicator to her pocket. “Indeed he does. I for one feel more than ready to conquer the day.”

  Whatever response Kvarel may have offered was cut short by shouts of alarm echoing from one of the corridors leading from the control room. Those working at various tables and stations turned in response to the cries to see a trio of Klingons emerging from the curved passageway into the larger room. One soldier, along with a member of B’tinzal’s science contingent, was supporting another uniformed Klingon. It took an extra moment for B’tinzal to realize that the soldier’s left leg had been amputated below the knee in apparently brutal fashion.